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LIBRA ' OF CONGRESS^ 

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S T E L LA. 



BY 



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MRS. MARY B. M. TOLAND. 




Copyright, 1878, by Mary B. M. Toland. 




NEW YORK. 

J^lMES milleu, publisher 

779 BROADWAY. 



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A true Story — every incident happened as related. One evening. I took my little boy on my lap, 
to tell him a story, and suiting the language to his understanding, I recited in rhymes — 
" Stella," or how I tamed a little Indian girl. He was so much interested, that he would insist 
on my repeating the same story nearly every evening, until I concluded that, which pleased 
him so much, would entertain other children. 

The first edition was smaller, and in pamphlet form, which I have revised, and added six pages 
which were suggested by an English Author, who said the scenes of her confirmation too 
impressive to be omitted. 



COME little Hugh, 'tis nearly time 
To hear the old clock's measured chime- 
One, two, three, four and five, then six, 
While nurse shall your night-wrappers fix, 
I will tell you a tale in rhyme. 



What think you I saw, 

As I went to the door ? 
A wild little Indian 

So meagre and poor. 
Her arms were all bare, 

And an old ragged sack 
Was the only garment, 

That covered her back. 



STELLA. 

Her hair was on end, 

Like the brush of a sweep, 
And her little bead eyes 

Were sunken and deep. 
Her broad, ugly face 

Had a little flat nose; 
And she was all dirt 

From her head to her toes. 

Your papa had sent her 

To be my own maid; 
To teach her, and make her 

A Christian, he said. 
But I, when I saw her, 

Would rather that she 
Be maid of the forest 

Than maiden to me, 
I tried to refuse her, 

And send her away 
By the person who brought her, 

I offered to pay 



STELLA. 

Much more than your papa 
Had paid him to bring 

As a present to me 
The odd little thing. 

He would not,— and then 

To the kitchen I brought 
The poor little squaw, 

To be clothed, fed, and taught. 
A nurse from the country 

Was waiting a place : 
" To nurse a wild Injun," 

She said, "was disgrace." 
Then Mary, our cook, 

With a heart warm and true, 
Said the poor little thing 
, Was hungry, she knew; 
And gave her some cake, 

Which she threw in her face, 
And ran out of the door. 

As if in a race. 



STELLA. 

Much more than your papa 
Had paid him to bring 

As a present to me 
The odd little thing. 

He would not,— and then 

To the kitchen I brought 
The poor little squaw, 

To be clothed, fed, and taught. 
A nurse from the country 

Was waiting a place: 
" To nurse a wild Injun," 

She said, "was disgrace." 
Then Mary, our cook, 

With a heart warm and true, 
Said the poor little thing 
. Was hungry, she knew; 
And gave her some cake, 

Which she threw in her face, 
And ran out of the door. 

As if in a race. 




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STELLA. 

To catch her and bring her 

Back into the house, 
Was hardly as easy 

As catching a mouse. 
She was swift as an arrow, 

And terribly wild, 
Resembling a monkey 

Much more than a child. 

But the nurse-girl and Joe, 

And Mary, the cook, 
From chasing and searching 

In every nook 
Of the garden and yard, 

And at last in the street, 
Found her snugly ensconced 

In a toy-store retreat, 
Just back of the counter, 

Among some old bags, 
As if quite at home 

In the rubbish and rags. 



STELLA, 

She scratched, fought, and bit, 
Every step of the way. 

Said Joe, " Mum, I'm thinking 
Her mind is asthray." 

And seeing her capers, 

I soon thought the same, 
With wonder how I 

Such a savage could tame- 
She scowling defiance, 

With threatening frown, 
Her face with revenge 

Getting blacker than brown. 

A mission imposed— 

Unpleasant, unsought— 
Your papa a practical 

Lesson had taught 
To me, as a Christian. 

I bowed to his will, 
But could not help feeling 

Disgust at her still. 



STELLA. 

The two girls then filled up 

A large washing tub; 
They gave her a bath, 

With a scrubbing-brush rub; 
And sheared her stiff hair off, 

While I sat me down, 
With warm scarlet flannel, 

To make her a gown. 

She would eat no cooked food, 

Preferring raw meat, 
Which she took from the dogs; 

Or else she would eat 
The breast off a duck, 

Which so frightened poor Joe, 
Said he, " Mum, I'm fearing 

"Shell ate me up so. 
" If I was to spake, mum, 

" And tell yez my mind, 
" I'd be sending her back 

"To the forest to find 



STELLA. 

" Her natural diet 

"Of moles, mice, and snakes— 
" The house in sich awful 

"Confusion she makes." 

I thought, the next morning, 

That Joe was quite right 
A crowd in the street 

Gave us all such a fright. 
What strange thing had happened ? 

A fire, perchance. 
No, Stella was dancing 

A wild native dance, 
In front of the window, 

Without shame or fear, 
The crowd looking on 

With jest and with jeer. 

The moment she saw us, 

She crept into bed, 
And under her blankets 

She covered her head 



STELLA. 

Soon after I missed 

My prettiest pet; 
Though I never once thought 

It was Stella who ate 
My lovely canary, 

So gentle and tame. 
'Twould light on my finger 

And answer its name. 

Then, day after day, 

As I came from my drive, 
One less of my pets 

Would be found alive; 
Until seven in all 

Of my birdlings were gone, 
And Joe found 'twas Stella 

The mischief had done. 
For in her small box, 

With rags altogether, 
He found some birds' legs, 

A beak, and tail feather. 



STELLA. 

She had eaten them all, 

The same as a cat. 
Disgust turned to loathing, 

I'm sure, after that. 

Days, weeks, passed away — 

I never once saw 
The dread of our household, 

The poor little squaw, 
Until, crossing the hall, 

I met her one day, 
And she looked in my face, 

As much as to say, 
" Please, mistless, be kind," 

Then offered a plum 
Of sugar, all stuck to her 

Finger and thumb. 
It melted my heart, 

And I never again 
Of our Stellas wild tricks 

Had cause to complain. 



-SUM* ' 




STELLA. 

We christened her Stella— 

As star of the night: 
She grew out of darkness, 

So faithful and bright. 
Her Sunday School teacher 

Would smile when she saw 
The first at the church 

Was the poor little squaw. 

On every Feast Day 

She was up with the dawn, 
Gleaning fair flowers 

From garden and lawn ; 
Which she took to the church 

As her offering of love, 
That their fragrant beauty 

Her Lord would approve. 

And never a Fast 

Of the church but she kept 
On solemn Good Friday, 

Most sadly she wept; 



STELLA, 

And, sobbing, would ask me 
Again to explain 
Our crucified Jesus 
Arisen again. 

"You tell me that Heaven 

"Is dazzling bright. 
" Is it there where the stars 

" Do gather their light ? 
"And, mistless, please tell me, 

"Will Stella be fair- 
" If her spirit is good — 

" As the angels up there ?" 

Such questions she'd ask. 

While her little bead eyes 
Seemed searching my heart, 

As I made her replies. 
"Tis strange I'm so dark," 

She often would say— 
" Is there nothing will wash 

"This color away?" 



STELLA. 

With her book in her hand 

From morning till night, 
We never could teach her 

To spell, read, or write. 
She tried, but she could not; 

The simplest word 
Was forgotten so soon as 

Another she heard. 
Illustrated primers of every kind 

Were brought into service, 
But none reached her mind. 

Seven years passed away--- 

She had gained all our love, 
So faithful, devoted, 

And true, did she prove. 
So robust and healthy, 

And happy she seem'd, 
That Stella was ill, 

We never once dreamed. 
And yet she grew thoughtful 

And sad every day, 



STELLA. 

Alone by herself 

She would wander away, 
As yearning for something 

That we could not give. 
In this stifled atmosphere 

She could not live. 
From sleeping she'd waken 

To tell me her dream : 

" I was playing last night 

By the same mountain stream, 
Where I lived long ago, 

So near the blue sky 
I could touch the soft clouds, 

The hills were so high. 
I had a long line, 

With a little sharp hook, 
And caught some nice fishes, 

From out of the brook 
On its green mossy bank 

Grew grasses so sweet, 



STELLA. 

I gathered a handful, 
But when I would eat, 

I could not, and trembling 
I awoke in a fright, 

To see the stars shining 
In darkness of night." 

Then clasping my hand 

As I drew near her bed, 
She looked in my face, and 

With pleading voice— said 
" Please, Mistress, I'm wishing 

Dear Bishop to see, 
I love him so much ; 

Will you ask him for me ? 
You promised, Whitsunday, 

That I, with the rest 
Should kneel at the Altar— 

In pure white be dressed, 
And confirmed in our church 

How happy I'd be. 



STELLA. 

But, Mistress! no Whitsun— 
Again shall I see." 

Next day on the street, 

Our good Bishop I met, 
And Stella's sad mission 

I did not forget. 
"So ill," he exclaimed 

"Why did you not send 
For me? Tis my duty 

Such calls to attend. 
I will go with you now." 

Then gladly I led 
Our Right Reverend friend, 

To Stella's sick bed. 

She whispered with joy 
As we entered her room; 

"I am happy, dear Mistress, 
I knew he would come." 

Then timidly turning 
Her glad beaming face, 



STELLA. 

She asked in the fold of 
Our- Church for a place. 

Next morning an Altar 

Was raised near her bed, 
With tear-trembling voices 

Responses were said; 
With flowers, all fragrant, 

But withering there, 
We knelt at the last, in 

Deep silence of prayer. 
Robed in white— 'twas her wish- 

And thus as she lay, 
Her spirit departed 

Ere noon of that day. 

The elements sacred 

Her lips had just pressed; 

She whispered, " So Jesus 
The little ones blessed! 

I'm happy! so happy! 

Oh, please, do not weep"-- 



STELLA. 

And she smiled as if angels 
Were guarding her sleep. 

I may not tell the rest my boy, 
Tis wrong to cloud your childish joy; 
For Stella is so happy there, 
Among the angels good and fair, 

We think of her as one. 
Dying, she left her savings all, 
Her legacy, we well may call, 
To buy the Font, the very same 
Where you received your Papa's name. 

Good-night! our story's done. 



